


Things Do Not Change, We Change.

by LittleBlackHeart



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Cute, Pre-War Tommy, school au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9533936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBlackHeart/pseuds/LittleBlackHeart
Summary: Tommy Shelby is 14, and is sick of being associated with his parent's criminal activity. He used to love being able to do what he wanted, when he wanted - teachers couldn't punish him, or his father would come knocking, kids in his class were terrified of him... but it got boring. One night, on an odd street he's never found before, Tommy finds a boy who fascinates him.





	1. A Shelby

     The ball thudded against the classroom wall endlessly, followed by the soft _thck_ as it landed back in the boy’s hand. His other hand was draped lazily over the back of the wooden chair, which he was tilting listlessly in - the wood creaking as it balanced on the two back legs. Thud, catch. Thud, catch. The repetitive motion calmed his nerves somewhat, relaxing the tenseness in the muscles of his shoulders and legs. His blue eyes were trained on the spot on the wall the ball was hitting - to the left of a huge, dirty blackboard covered with illegible scrawling. The rest of the classroom was empty - Tommy had spun the teacher's chair round to sit on, facing away from the window, through which the sun was setting.  
     The door opened and a tall, grey-haired man stepped through.  
“Shelby. Do stop that.” _Thck_. The ball stayed in Tommy’s long, slender fingers. He slipped it into the pocket of his worn blazer as the man, his old teacher, looked down at him through his spectacles. He folded his arms and leant against the desk, still looking at him.  
“And stop leaning on the chair like that. Break y’ neck.” Tommy tipped the chair onto all fours dramatically, the smack of the legs against the floor loud in the quiet room.  
The old man sniffed. “You really gave Miss Pearsall a run t’day, son. She could have really hurt herself.”  
The corner of Tommy’s mouth curled, and he flicked his eyes down.  
“Was only a joke, sir.” He smiled.  
“Hm. And little Susan Harris’s ma says she hasn’t stop crying since she got home.”  
Tommy suppressed a grin.  
The man folded his arms and sighed. “I’ll let yer off, considerin’ your particular...circumstances. But I can’t keep doing this, son.”  
The boy’s smile dropped and his face hardened. He furrowed his brows and looked up at his teacher. “Considering my circumstances?” He paused. “Considering my dad, you mean.”  
“Listen, boy. I’m not mad enough t’ smack a Shelby son, let's put it like that.” The teacher gave a half-hearted, nervous smile.  
Tommy got to his feet. He glared icily at the teacher. “Considering m’ fuckin’ dad. Fuckin’ joke this is.”  
“Thomas, sit d-”  
“Everyone around me is scared shitless, like fuckin foxes in the hunt. I’m sick of it. It’s l-” Tommy stopped and shook his head, the bitter smile reappearing on his lips. “Don’t worry. You’re not worth it.” With that, the boy strode out of the door to the classroom and slammed it as loudly as he could.

There’s a sort of illusion with authority, and Tommy was starting to realize that. As any kid had, he’d been taught that the adults around him knew more than him - that he should respect his elders, that he was just a kid, that he knew nothing about the world. He’d never questioned that the adults around him were more intelligent, stronger, older, better than him. Even when he started to realize he could tell what his teachers and parents were doing - know what they were thinking and feeling - he always assumed he was wrong. The people in charge of us all must be smarter than he thought, right? But recently he’d come to the realization that absolutely no one knew what they were doing. No one in Birmingham seemed to be on his level. None of the feckless, mumbling, illiterate teachers, policemen, politicians and factory workers were in the least bit bright enough to know what was going on in the world. And Tommy could see right through them.  
He brushed a hand through his matted black hair and stopped to gaze at his face in the reflective glass of an old trophy cabinet in the corridor. At 14, his face was already well developed - having lost all the puppy fat around his cheeks and neck, his jaw was sharp and defined, his cheekbones paralleling his gaunt appearance. He studied his own ice-blue eyes intently - framed by thick eyelashes, and strong, black brows. The eyes of his father, as he was so often told. He ran his hands through his hair again, slicking it back. Staring at his own reflection, he felt a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to shove his fist through the glass, shattering the cabinet. His right arm twitched - but he kept it by his side, quickly turning and hurrying to the door, shoving it open and stepping outside into the dusk.


	2. Amory

Tommy kicked sticks and leaves around his ankles. Summer hadn’t quite set in yet in Birmingham, and the nights were still cold. He had started to shiver, but the thought of going home didn’t appeal to him - there was no point. He turned down an alley - he had been making random lefts and rights for about an hour now, twisting and turning, creating a random convoluted path behind him through the darkening streets of Small Heath. He ignored the tiny voice in his head that told him he was lost, and pushed on, hands in pockets. The pink of dusk had gone from the sky, draining into the black smog-filled horizon of the city, the disappearing sun flooding the sky with a sickening, stifling black. Lamplighters had started to light the streets, tiny specks of light illuminating the cramped rows of houses. He drew his hat low over his eyes, and took a sharp left, catching a glimpse of the street sign - “Greenleaf Street”. Ahead, another endless row of identical housing. To the left, however, a cluster of houses in the centre of the street were in ruins - like a bite had been taken out of the terrace. The two floors were clearly visible, the foundations and struts of the wall bare, the floors caved in. Tommy stepped off the pavement and made towards the wreck, interested by something other than the same old streets. You could tell the houses had been like this for a while - the tiny buildings were weathered and wetted by the rain, and inside was utterly bare, with no signs of living whatsoever. As he moved closer, flickered from the streetlamp showed the dirt through the living room floor. He leant his hand on the strut where the door used to be, and peered inside.    
“What you lookin’ for, mate?”   
Tommy spun around, seeing a tall slim figure standing on the road behind him. His breath caught in his throat, and he stepped back in shock.    
“Uh-h-” He coughed, trying to regain calm. “Just out for a w-walk.” He hated how his voice broke, revealing his fear.   
The figure chuckled darkly and stepped towards him, his captoe shoes clicking on the cobbled streets, the sound rattling around the empty terrace. “You’re a lil young to be takin’ walks, right?”   
Tommy gulped and said nothing. He’d never been in a real fight before. He’d kicked around kids at school, of course, and seen his dad fight a man in a pub, but he couldn’t imagine him doing anything like that. As the figure came into the light from the street lamp, Tommy saw he was not a man - but young, perhaps only slightly older than him - willowy and tall, with wide shoulders and a heavy newsboy cap over hiding his face.    
“Perhaps I should continue my walk elsewhere, sir?” Tommy said with fake confidence, hoping for an easy get-out of the situation.   
“Nah, son. Why do that? All these streets r’ the same.” The boy stepped lightly onto the pavement and up to the ruins, turning his face up to look at what was left of the roof. As he looked up, the light from the streetlamp illuminated his face in a warm, golden glow - a strong, Roman nose sloped down into upturned, light lips - his skin was pale with harsh, structured cheekbones sloping down into hollowed cheeks. Around his neck his shirt was buttoned tight with a dark bow-tie. Light sparkled off his large, blue eyes making them appear golden as they flicked over the house in front of them both. He turned to him, and leant lazily against the precarious wooden post of the front door. 

“What are you, 15? Whats yer name?”   
“I’m 14, sir. My name’s Tommy.” He paused, hesitating. “Tommy Shelby.”   
“Shelby? Heard that name somewhere before….”   
Tommy’s fist clenched. Is there anyone in this bastard city who doesn’t know him?   
The man flicked his eyes back to him and started laughing - a loud, musical laugh. “Sounds gypsy.”   
Tommy let a grin spread across his face.    
“I’m Amory.” The man put his hand out for Tommy, and it took a second for him to realize he wanted to shake hands. His grip was firm, and all the adrenaline left Tommy’s body.   
“Any kid brave enough to walk around Small Heath at night is someone I want to get to know.”   
Amory fished out a small metal box from his pocket and clicked it open. Placing a cigarette between his lips, he struck a match and cupped his hands around the cigarettes end, letting the paper flare up.

“You smoke?” He said, dropped the match to the ground and grinding it out with his heel.   
“Nah.”   
“You should.”


End file.
